Pretty in Pink
by Ahmerst
Summary: Ivan, a straight-laced businessman, gets himself into a spot of trouble and then some after picking up a prostitute with a penchant for wearing pink dresses. Oh boy. Eventual Ivan/Alfred.


Ivan never imagined he would one day pick up a prostitute, let alone a male one. He was a mild-mannered business man after all, one that followed the same routine every day, dutifully stepping into the shower at a quarter past seven each morning, and never straying from the route he took to and from work. The sole unknown in his day to day life was what he would have for lunch, and even then he usually defaulted to a turkey sandwich.

But now here he was, cruising down darkened streets dotted by dim, flickering lights, looking for the man he saw almost each evening as he drove home. He'd been there for over a year now, and Ivan had come to regard him as a sort of familiar stranger, not unlike his coworkers. Just with a lot less interaction.

The man wasn't there without fail, though. There were nights when the lamp he stood under was an empty spotlight, free of his tall frame. And yet more where the sight of him was blocked by a car idling in the curb as he leaned through the window and talked to potential clients.

Ivan had seen prostitutes before, they weren't new to him, but he didn't know of any others that wore tight pink dresses, pumps to elongate legs that already seemed to stretch forever, and gold hoop earrings with bangles to match. Well, Ivan supposed such outfits were not unique to ladies of the night, but it was a different story for men.

He was definitely not picking up the man because of the way he had waved at him last night. Ivan hadn't meant to look. He liked to keep his eyes on the road, concentrate on where he was going. It must have been the glimmer of his bracelets that caught Ivan's attention, and before he knew it his eyes were drifting to the side of the road.

The man had caught him looking and waved, a subtle curling of his fingers, the coy tilt of his head and the flutter of lashes. His hips had given a slight, feminine sway, and Ivan's reservations had been obliterated. He'd decided in that instant that he was going to throw caution to the wind for once in his life and live on the wild side.

Ivan wasn't a man of vice. He enjoyed a few of the finer things in life, like good food and alcohol, but never to excess. But he had no one to share his income with, no one to treat to meals or take to the movies. He nearly never lavished money on himself besides the occasional purchase of a new suit, and the sports car he thought would bring him love, but aside from that he had no true drains on his bank. He could afford to hire a hooker for a nice romp.

That night, intent that in twenty-four hours he'd have that little streetwalker in his bed, Ivan went on the internet. He had to find out how you approached a prostitute after all. He was excited as anything, ready to learn the ways of consorting with the less desirable members of society when the search engine stole the entirety of his bravado.

His fingers had been poised above the keyboard, his mind whirring as he thought up the most useful keywords he could put in, but then his eyes had locked onto the steady blinking of the cursor. It was a daunting little slip of a line, disappearing before reappearing just as quickly. What was he supposed to tell it? What was he meant to ask?

The internet had many guides for many things, but would it have one for the world's oldest profession? Surely the business was conducted in all different manners, with no one way to operate. And what if by some weird fluke a person came over to visit him _and_ used his computer? He couldn't explain away why he had instructions for picking people up off the streets.

He'd have to be sneakier about it if he wanted this to work, find a way of putting his 'friend' at ease. He had to be used to clients that knew nothing beyond what they wanted and had no understanding of how the practice worked, Ivan would be unremarkable in that regard. But showing up in a nice car and a well-tailored suit might put the street walker on guard. It could appear to be too good to be real, such a finely dressed man in an equally nice vehicle, like a trap set by law enforcement, the proverbial honey pot. With all the experience the man had, he had to have an eye for those situations.

While he could do nothing about his car, Ivan figured dressing down for the evening would help put the prostitute at ease. Instead of searching for tips and tricks, Ivan found himself browsing the latest fashion of the youngsters. Track pants and wife beaters popped up a lot, along with a helping of gold chains and conspicuously tight jeans.

Ivan wasn't partial to the jeans, and the chains might be overkill, but the rest he could do. He took a trusty pen and a slip of paper, neatly writing the ingredients that would compose his outfit. He ended up with a grocery list of clothing when he was finished, and neatly folded it before putting it in his pocket before heading out the door.

For the first time in three years, Ivan left the house after eight in the evening. He hardly noticed.

* * *

Ivan woke up two minutes before his alarm was set to go off. He stared at the ceiling, his toes wriggling as his conscious came back around. He'd dreamt of nothing. No nightmares or dreams, only a deep, comforting blackness that passed all too quickly.

The build-up to sleep had led him to think it would be more exciting than it was, what with his shaking hands and unsteady nerves. He'd returned home after ten with two bags full of clothes, indecisive as ever when it came to picking out new bits in his wardrobe.

Not that he planned to wear what he'd bought more than once. He'd managed to find the track pants and the wife beaters, had bought them both in multiple sizes instead of figuring out what properly fit. He promised himself he'd settle the matter in the comfort of his own home and take back whatever was left over.

The alarm clock buzzed to life, scattering Ivan's plans. He duly turned it off and paused to listen to the bird song outside his window. It was faint, weaker than he was used to, a mere melody compared to the usual cacophony of shrill whistles and the flutter of wings.

He rolled out of bed and pulled the blinds up, the first step in his morning routine. The sky outside was clouded over, a deep gray in place of the blue spring he was used to being faced with. A haze of drizzle textured the air, and Ivan found himself wondering if prostitutes stayed on their street corners when the weather was bad. He couldn't recall if his disappeared on bad weather days.

He'd have to find out tonight.

* * *

The workday passed in the usual fog Ivan was used to, his actions and responses automatic, his head in the clouds, conjuring up imaginary conversations he would never hold. He spent his lunch break in the break room, staring with a quiet intensity a the vending machine, eying the snacks that lined its insides. He settled on salted peanuts and a package of cheesy chips to which he was partial.

He bought two soft drinks from the soda machine. One for himself, and one he would keep for the prostitute. He regretted it almost instantly, a small part of his mind, the one that dictated absurd laws, told him that because he'd bought something for the man, it practically guaranteed he wouldn't be at his spot. But Ivan pushed it down, squashed it into the dark parts where he stored things he preferred not to think about. Like what would happen once he got the man into his car.

Ivan spent the rest of his day behind his desk, agonizing over his drink choice. What if the man was allergic to Coca Cola, or just plain didn't like it? Starting off on the wrong foot would haunt Ivan to his deathbed, like all the other small mistakes he was prone to making.

When the clock struck six and Ivan finished glancing over the last of the paperwork, he took a deep breath and let it out. Oprah said that was the kind of thing you did when approaching a stressful situation, and Ivan liked to think the woman knew what she was talking about.

He counted to ten and let the breath out. The Cola Cola stayed a Coca Cola, and Ivan's nerves continued to fry under the pressure of his worries. He tried the whole breathing thing again, but nothing changed. He didn't even know what he was so worried about.

He'd prepared for this. He had clothes in his closet and several hundred-dollar bills in his wallet. And it wasn't like he didn't have experience. Well, that was maybe, possibly part of it. Not that he was a virgin, but his first experience felt so far away, the memory faded and mussed like watercolor paints.

He couldn't remember the name of his partner, not their face, nor their very presence. The only thing he recalled was their smell, sweaty and heady and more than a little boozy. He'd certainly smelled like that last one himself, and he was sure that was a contributor to how much of the memory he lacked.

But he did vaguely remember their deed, how their bodies had moved together and the low noises they made. There'd been a physical pleasure, but when it came to the emotional, there was nothing to be had. They were two strangers fucking in a college dorm and there wasn't much more to it. When they had finished, Ivan had felt a supreme relief, knowing that he was no longer a virgin, and he had been thankful for that much.

Ivan's stomach twisted and knotted itself the more he dwelled on it. He was thinking too much, trying to apply logic and understanding when all he wanted to do was act on carnal urges. Ivan rubbed his hands against his cheeks, desperately trying to massage his misgivings away.

Ivan wasn't a sad man, but neither was he happy. There were days where too much work flooded in and not enough got done, and on those days he went home feeling a bit blue. And on days where his paycheck was higher than expected, or the weather particularly nice, he smiled. But none of his feelings were sustained. They merely _were_.

People around him spoke of living their life to the fullest, shared secrets and dreams and hopes. Ivan had none to contribute. He was a vessel for a heartbeat and the flow of blood, the shell of a person content to perform the same menial tasks day after day that would drive a lesser man to madness. He no desire to please or improve, no one he wanted to impress or win the heart of. Ivan simply was.

That was going to change today, though. At least for an hour or so, which could lead to bigger and better things. Or a criminal record. Either way, it'd be exciting, a strangely welcome change from the day in, day out monotony of his life.

The clock in Ivan's car dictated that it was half past six when he slid behind the wheel. He calculated the time it would take for him to get home, factored in traffic and stop lights and the possible stand still. Forty-five was his average, and he saw no reason for that to change tonight.

The prostitute was roughly twenty minutes from Ivan's house, but having left his clothes for the evening at home, it would require Ivan to double back to pick him up. Ivan figured he'd manage to get the man in his car before a quarter to eight.

Ivan pulled out of the parking lot with a barely-there smile on his lips, the soda he'd saved sitting patiently in the car's cup holder. He smiled all through the traffic and the light drizzle that had refused to fade**;** he smiled through the honking horns.

He stopped when he drove by the street corner only to find it empty.

* * *

Ivan stared at himself in the mirror. He looked stupid. He looked beyond stupid. He looked unforgiveably stupid. It was the black baseball cap that sealed the deal, put the final nail in the coffin. For some reason only God knew, he'd decided to turn it backwards. It was what the kids did these days.

But he wasn't a kid, not even remotely. He was twenty-seven, and it showed in his face. Where the young ones had a youthful, soft roundness in their cheeks and big, bright eyes, Ivan's cheeks had lost their baby fat. The bones now defined sharply, not unlike his jaw. His shoulders were now broad, his back strong and his limbs lengthened.

None of it helped him pull off his 'hip' outfit. Well, the wife beater he could pull off, though only by being graced by muscular arms. He wasn't sure what he'd done to earn them, but they were a secret pride of his. The black sweats, however, did nothing to flatter. At least they didn't make things worse, like the hat.

Ivan took the hat off and looked it over, turning it every which way in the vain hope of discovering a perfect angle. He put it on again, this time with the bill facing forward. He still looked ridiculous, especially when he stopped to look at the gold rings on his fingers, gaudy and fake and purchased from a shady looking costume store, but they had been cheap and Ivan had wanted to _complete_ the look.

Ivan sighed and looped his scarf around his neck. With the man in the pink dress unavailable, Ivan decided to treat tonight as a test run of sorts, get himself used to the outfit, to the idea of picking up a man off the streets.

* * *

Ivan cruised the streets with his mind on autopilot as the drizzle continued. His eyes automatically snapped to the people he passed, only to skip back to the road when he found no familiarity in their faces. He circled blocks aimlessly, turned when he had no reason to and turned the radio station to rap. He cringed a few seconds in and switched to his favorite classical station, where soothing strings and piping wind instruments greeted him.

He got lost several times, drifting in and out of shadier neighborhoods, slowing as he passed pitch-black alleys, squinting to see what they held. All the while he tried to convince himself that he was driving for the sake of it, that there was no one in particular he was attempting to scout out. He definitely wasn't pining for a prostitute.

Despite his convictions, Ivan's car steered itself towards the fateful street. Ivan didn't expect to find anyone, because then it wouldn't be a test drive. This was most assuredly a test drive, even if he did still have the Coke in his car. He'd forgotten to take it out, that was all, and he wasn't thirsty enough to drink it himself.

He was so concentrated on assuring himself his drive was nothing serious that he almost passed the very-much-occupied space under his favorite streetlight. It took all of Ivan's senses not to slam on the brakes out of surprise. Instead, he slowly crept forward, veering towards the curb.

He stopped a few feet away from the prostitute and rolled down the window with the press of a button. There was a howl of laughter in the darkness around them, the clatter of bins and the screeching of wheels. A window slammed shut.

Ivan's heartbeat was louder than it all, a booming thunder that rattled his chest.

The man Ivan had been thinking of all day watched from his pool of light, his pink dress hidden in part by a pink raincoat. The strap of a pink purse hung over his shoulder, sunglasses perched atop his head along with a pair of more practical spectacles on his nose.

He took a step towards the car, the first one tentative, his movements becoming bolder as he made his way closer. His hips had a way of moving as he walked that instantly drew the eye, a tantalizing swing and sway. His ankles crossed one another, like a catwalk model's strut. His hair still shone gold even as he left his spotlight.

"Hello there, big guy," the man purred as he looked through the passenger's side window, his elbows leaning on the frame. "I knew you'd come around one of these days."

Ivan found himself unable to speak, his tongue twisted and writhing as he looked into the man's eyes.

Many kinds of blue had shown themselves to Ivan throughout his life. He'd seen the blue of the sky, vast and clear. The blue of the oceans, from tropical waters to the muddled shades that spread over bays. The blue of the iris and the morning glory and so many other flowers.

But the blue in the man's eyes identified with none of these shades. It was more than electric, more than alive. It was like twin flames of blue, flickering, blazing, ready to devour and burn away anything that came near it. A fire that had to be handled carefully, lest it burn those who decided to toy with it.

Ivan took a deep breath, and decided to play with fire.

* * *

A/N:  
-Writing Al as a hooker is going to be amazing fun.

-I've found out there have been at least two other fics in the Hetalia fandom named Pretty in Pink. Both of these have been on the kink meme, so I haven't been able to contact the authors and see if it's okay with them that I use the same title.

While the title isn't original in and of itself, I still like to check these things out so I don't anger or offend anyone. If anyone has a work named Pretty in Pink as well, I hope you don't mind my story having the same title. If you do, please send me a private message so we can work things out.

Edit: This is straight up inspired by kolkolkol. com


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